He Never Really Left
by l0-li-ta
Summary: What will happen when her worst enemy shows up, just like nothing ever happened? (Android!Wheatley AU)
1. Bleeding Emotion

One morning he just showed up. Just like he always did, out of nowhere, shoving himself into places he didn't belong. It had been six years. Six whole goddamn years. Six years staring at the moon, glaring at him as if I could see him, feeling hot, sick, ugly inside just thinking about him. People frequently asked if I was okay. The little old lady in the apartment next to mine thought I was crazy, sitting out on my balcony at night, glaring and hissing and staring at the moon for a year after I moved in. But then I had to get a job, and I began working for a living after my refugee welfare ran out. So I went to bed before it got dark, got up at dawn. I watched the moon dissolve into a puddle, liquefied by the sun's hot rays shooting across the sky. I stared and wished he was melting away into the piece of scrap metal he was.

I walked in from my diner shift, sighing, untying my apron and draping it over the threadbare armchair. I extracted the tips from the tight pocket, slid them into my wallet. I felt numb again today. It had started maybe two years ago? Two years of working at a dead-end diner, filing taxes, paying rent, it kept chipping away at me, dulling my senses until I could barely laugh anymore.

I spilled hot soup at work today. All over my hands. My fingers were still puffy and scaly and red, and it hurt to bend them. I could barely lift myself from the chair, but I tottered over on sore feet to the sink, running my fingers under coolish water. As the water trickled down the drain, I leaned forward, my forehead pressing into the sharp angle of the crappy wooden cabinet, but I didn't care. I sighed and closed my eyes, feeling the water trickle over my fingers.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. I might have fallen asleep. I don't know. After a while I slid out of it, blurry world coming into focus. It was almost dark, and the clock on the counter glowed blue. I was startled by a sharp buzz of static from the radio. I swung around, fingers clenching tightly around an invisible trigger. But there was nothing in my hand and nothing there either, just a crappy little radio that came with the apartment. For a second I thought I heard a snatch of a voice, a chirpy, giggly sound-

I slammed on the power button so fast the radio slid off the counter and onto the floor, bouncing a few times before striking the counter. In the impact, the battery cover bounced off and six double-a batteries popped out, rolling all over the tile. I cursed myself, kicked the device, and stalked off to my room, taking the half-finished cheese sandwich I had been preparing.

I pulled my legs up to my chest, sandwich forgotten on the side table. There was something eerie about this. The glowing blue clock, the giggle from the radio. Would have thought haunted if there wasn't a certain blue-eyed robot out for my blood. I hugged my legs tighter. I wasn't afraid of him. I was afraid of the future, afraid of losing my job and not having enough to eat. I was afraid of dying, afraid of being mugged. Afraid of Her. But I was not afraid of that blue idiot.

With that resolve, I turned over, pulling the covers over my head.

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay awake trying not to peek at the moon.


	2. Not Real

There was a knocking at my door. It was probably the old woman next door, she showed up once in a while to 'say hello', and she would grasp my hands tight in hers, so tight I could feel her brittle bones and I knew I could snap them. She would look at me awhile, look at the contents of my apartment, then slowly turn my arms over to expose my wrists, satisfied with the unblemished skin. All my old Aperture nicks and scratches were gone, camouflaged under a tan. When I first rejoined the human race, I was deathly pale and covered in ugly little burns and cuts. She looked into my eyes like she knew what was going on.

She would smile at me, whisper a quiet 'God bless' and leave. It was almost a weekly ritual.

But I opened the door to a dirty white shirt, partially unbuttoned over a pale, corpse-pale chest. I looked up into searing blue eyes.

_No._

"Hello!" A grin. His blue eyes crinkled so realistically, but I knew if I reached my hand up and dug my fingers into his face, he'd be nothing more than plastic and circuitry. I wanted to dig my nails into his cheek and rip off chunks of his fake skin, peeling it away until I could see his fake brain, where I could crush it and his fake emotion, so I would never have to hear his _fake _voice again. He wasn't real. A fake monster.

I slammed the door in his face. He reached his hand out, and it couldn't close fully before he got his _fake _fingers into the hole, and he easily pulled it open. His face was hurt, perfectly portraying the right emotions at the right time. A perfect piece of machinery.

It all came rushing back. I slammed my eyes shut, covered my ears before I had to hear his fake voice grating on my senses, appallingly cheery.

"_Get out!" _ I screeched. I launched myself at him pushing and shoving and wrestling him out the door.

"How dare you?" I snarled.

"You think you can come here and smile like that and everything will be fine? Let me guess, you brought flowers, too. An apology for trying to _murder _me." I was completely enraged. He looked absolutely devastated, and a bunch of daisies tied with pink ribbon fell to my carpet. But I didn't trust him for a minute. He was a machine. He wasn't capable of anything past his programming. He snatched up the flowers, straightening them and cradling them close to his chest.

I punched him square in the chest, and he fell out the door, still clutching his silly flowers.

I slammed the door with so much force it bounced in the frame, I slammed the deadbolt home, so shocked and angry for a second I felt consumed. And then I slid to the floor, tears streaming down my face as insults ran through my mind, worse and worse, his voice berating me, taunting me. Him grinning from up on that _thing_, taunting, hurting. There was a quiet knock on my door, a quiet swish on the wood. And footsteps as somebody walked away. I lay there, utterly spent. After a moment, I slid the door open, and a half-crushed bouquet of daisies sat on my doorstep, a note tucked into the pink ribbon.

_Dinner at 7 in the Suzette?_

I shook my head. I wasn't going.

But I did prop the daisies up in a vase on the windowsill. No need to waste perfectly good flowers.


	3. Come Out, Wherever You Are!

I promised myself. I promised myself a lot of things. And I felt so horrible, sick, weak, that I stood outside the Suzette at a quarter to seven, wearing a nice dress, clutching a little purse so tight my knuckles were white with blood loss, and staring at my toes.

The man (by the loosest terms possible) I hated strolled up at five to seven, whistling a cheery tune, wearing a clean white shirt tucked into scuffed black pants. And I couldn't help but notice. It wasn't my fault. The body was perfectly sculpted, realistic, and made to be attractive. He saw me. His face lit up like that, like he was genuinely happy to see me. His pretty blue eyes glittered and shone, reflecting the light from the windows and storefront around, absorbing the glow. I bet he still had the flashlight function, so that wasn't all that impressive. He made to move closer to me, but I shoved him back with a hand on his chest.

"No."

I stepped inside. I ignored the twist of guilt in my stomach at the perfectly crafted look of hurt. I closed my eyes and listened to the chatter of people inside the restaurant. It was brightly lit, people were everywhere. If he tried anything besides apologizing, or even groveling (I could go for a little groveling right now) I could scream. The voice therapy really had worked. I could scream with the best of them, toss glass shards at his stupid, pretty face, maybe cut up the stupid synthetic skin, and watch him bleed a bit. (I could go for a bit of bleeding right now.)

A woman in a black waistcoat led us to a table in the corner. There was a little candle in the center, and she leaned down, lit it up, and he sat, touching my wrist softly. I yanked my hand away, sliding in. I busied myself with straightening my napkin, fussing with my hair, fiddling with the contents of my purse (a cellphone, my wallet, and a lipstick) so I wouldn't have to look at him. Because if I looked at him, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold together. I'd break to pieces just like a certain underground laboratory six years ago. It was interesting to think. Both instances were his fault.

Why was I even here?

I was just about to do it. I was just about to get up and leave him stranded at this table. It would've served him right, too, but then he started speaking.

"I'm…" he stopped, bit his synthetic lip.

"I hope you know how sorry I am." So he was playing that card. That was fine.

I winced as I found myself believing him. Old habits die hard. And It wasn't like he could kill me here. I could let my guard down in public. I dropped my purse to the floor next to me, laced my fingers together,rested my chin on them, and looked at him for real, for the first time in six years. He hadn't aged, he still had that boyish look, like a kid, but at the same time ageless, almost. He could anywhere from twenty to thirty to a very young forty.

I was twenty-eight and feeling it next to him. I unconsciously tucked back a flyaway, cleared my throat, and spoke.

"Tell me how you got here. Don't leave anything out." His eyes flicked to the ceiling, and I was relieved from their burning gaze for just a second.

"Funny thing, actually-" His eyes flicked back onto me. I felt sick. He saw my pained expression and grinned. Grinned like a shark that caught a whiff of blood. Maybe him and Her were cut from the same cloth after all.

"And skip the theatrics." I practically spat.

"I see. The No Fun Allowed version?" He smiled in my direction. Underneath the table, his foot gave mine a little jostle, trying to get a reaction out of me. I tucked my feet out of his reach and gave a simple nod.

He gave a pout of his full lips, hiked his big, round glasses up on his nose, and began talking.

"After a while of floating in space with literally nothing to do except think about you, I had gone over that damn situation so many times in my head it hurt me just to think about it. And I know there's really no excuse for what I did, I'm not trying to guilt trip you, but then I spent my entire time counting stars and constellations and planets, trying to remember how many, and every time I got distracted because I kept thinking about Earth, and then it got me thinking about you, and the facility, and the whole place, and I just wanted to escape, but I just had that little brat Colin (I decided to call him Colin, spur of the moment) hanging off my shoulder, repeating the same thing over and over and over. Some of us aren't sentient, you know-" He took a deep breath, his words coming out in poorly thought out torrents, and his eyes pricked with fake tears.

"But then I realized I couldn't escape, and I'd be stuck there until my battery wound down, still thinking about this damn place and these damn humans, one human in particular, anyway-" His voice choked off in a perfectly executed sob.

"Cut it. How did you get here?" My anger was contained by now. I was going to choke it out of him.

"I was a little… mad by the end of year five. Any guy would be. So I was looking through my files, functions, anything to get me down from there, and I turned on the emergency radio. She got my signal, and actually listened to my groveling-" he stopped.

"Why do you care? You obviously don't want to be around me anyway." His voice was wavery.

"I need to determine whether you're here to hurt me."

"No! God, I just…" He grabbed his napkin, balled it into a fist, biting his bottom lip so hard it turned white. The he released it, reached for my hand. I didn't yank it away. He sighed, thumb rubbing warm circles across the back of my hand.

"That was a mistake. I was misplacing my feelings on you. I was projecting all- everything, on the nearest target, and you wouldn't answer me, and it just got too-"

"And I meant everything at the time. I meant all of it. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." And he kept looking down at the tablecloth, and I almost felt sorry for him, until he looked up at me with that expression, that perfectly contrived hurt, and I yanked my hand away.

The girl in the waistcoat whisked in, straightened his napkin, and set down a bowl of soup. She quickly returned with mine, and I sipped it quietly, ignoring hhis large foot rubbing against my leg, trying to get me to look up so I could see his perfectly portrayed fake feelings. I tried not to shudder as his shoe traveled up my calf. I shot him a glare but he just chuckled and continued to look at me, one hand on his cheek, grinning like some… lovesick idiot. He knew it. He knew how goddamn uncomfortable I was.

"I have to go to the bathroom." I got up, walking like a smooth, composed human being, before sprinting out of sight, down the stairs, into the tiny, cramped little bathroom. I flicked the light on with a smack, and slid to the floor shuddering to the bone.

Why did I think I could handle this?

I was on the verge of tears when I heard a soft knock on the door.


	4. No

**tw: some dubcon umu**

* * *

"Are you all right?" He whispered softly.

I was ashamed to hear my voice crack when I muttered,

"Go away."

"Now we both know I'm not going to do that, so why not tell me what's wrong? Can I come in?"

"No." I choked on my own tears, trying to shove their way out my eyes. I dabbed my eyes with tissue, trying to soak them up. I slammed my eyes shut, and I heard the door creaking open. Wheatley shouldered his way in, having to stoop down to accommodate his height in the cramped room. One of his arms was slung over his eyes.

"Everybody decent in here?" he chuckled at his own joke.

I was outraged.

"Get. Out." I hissed, but my voice cracked halfway through and I didn't sound very formidable. Instead of leaving, he wrapped and arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. My nails dug into his back.

"Get. Off. Of Me." His slightly cool touch was disgusting, his fake skin rubbed on me in so many bad ways, but he was strong and I couldn't move. I scratched at him, but he didn't let go. He kept hugging me, and my disgust welled up deep inside me. He had a habit of clinging to me Back There, always touching me, he had zero boundaries, and his coolish, pale, waxy fingers were so revolting I…

What.

What was he doing.

One of his hands brushed lightly across my cheek, and he loosened his grip a little bit, pulled his head away from where it was pillowed on my shoulder. I was looking straight into his Windex-blue eyes, and I couldn't pull away, even if his breathless lips were nearing mine…

"No." I muttered. This was all turning out wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. But instead I was pressed up against a dirty bathroom wall, trembling in my goddamn knickers, aching in the worst way. I was supposed to watch him cry, weave his little apology web, maybe grovel a bit, and then I could spit in his face because I _didn't need him. _

_I had never needed him._

I repeated that in my head as our lips locked. Suddenly it felt like something was blocking my throat. My breath came in short pants, and all of a sudden I didn't notice the plasticky texture of his mouth, just that it was on mine and that his hands were on either side of my face. My eyes unwillingly fluttered shut. I didn't like this, I didn't want this… But he was everywhere, and I felt tiny, miniscule.

My legs pressed together. I wrapped my arms around his neck, sliding closer. I had left all common sense at the table. He slid even closer, looming over me…

_Look at you, so small down there. Veeery insignificant._

I shuddered, tensed, chomped down on his lip. He chuckled, hands migrating from my cheeks to my shoulders, running smoothly to the small of my back, inching lower. Before I could stop it, a groan slipped from between my lips-

_No._

I yanked away from him, bashing my head upwards into his chin.

"Ow!" He rubbed his jaw.

"Stop. Stop." I hissed.

"Aw." He pouted, but then flashing that snarky grin that didn't look like him at all.

I had never seen him look like that.

Maybe because I hadn't wanted to see it. My face turned bright red, I was reeling with embarrassment.

I sat upstairs, he returned a few minutes with his hair mussed, gave me a grin and sat back down. My heart skipped a beat, and I went through my heat, reciting all the things I hated about him.

1. His arrogance

2. His sadism

3. The way he breathed, it was unnatural and heavy and wrong

4. The way he smiled, like he knew that it made my heart-

5. …

6. …

7. The way he…

8. Him.

9. His.

10. Stupid.

11. Fake.

12. Face.

I glared at him over the rim of my wineglass as he smiled, slid some money next to the receipt, and offered he his hand. I waved him off and stood, stalking out ahead of him, face bright red. I covered my face with my hands so nobody would have to see it.


	5. Surprise Visit

I woke next morning feeling warm from head to toe. I had happy dreams. Full of pretty pink cotton candy and Windex blue eyes-

_No._

I shook those thoughts off and nearly fell out of bed. But my mind kept going, unbidden. I fell over myself, thinking about the worst thing on earth, the worst man (in the loosest terms possible) to ever be near me. And in six years, I'd met a lot of men. But he held top price for 'Worst Asshole Loser Ever'. And that was no easy feat.

I was so distracted I could barely do my damn job. I nearly spilled Coke onto the lap of a young couple. I tripped and did a (mostly unintentional) pirouette through the aisle. The manager was giving me funny looks. I knew that look. It was the 'Watch Yourself Or You'll Get Sacked' look.

I was not going to lose my job over the "Worst Asshole Loser Ever.' So I slapped on a smile and swung the kitchen door open, scouring my section. For a second I thought nobody new had come in, when my eyes flicked to the counter, right smack dab in the middle of my section. Wheatley was perched on a barstool, grinning over in my direction. He raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in a wave. The bleached blonde woman next to him shot him a _look _and turned back to her food.

I closed the door and stepped back into the kitchen. I swallowed hard, fighting the churning of my stomach. I had to do this. I was going to-

I turned around to the pretty blond woman passing with a tray of pie balancing on her fingers. I began to bite my nails, casting nervous glances at the door.

"Lise, can you take the one in the middle of the bar?"

She popped a bubble with her gum and fixed her apron with her spare hand before answering.

"I'm taking the corner today. It's packed." She scooped up another tray of pie, balancing it on her elbow, still managing to shoot me a sympathetic look.

"Ask Jon." She jerked her chin at the tall man gathering up a few salad plates at the other end of the pickup area, and swept through the doors, calling over her shoulder,

"Hey! Jon!" He turned around. I waved at him.

"Can you take the middle of the counter?" My voice rasped a bit. I still wasn't used to talking loud.

"Uh, I don't know. Is it urgent?" He bit his lip, grabbing a drink tray and walking towards the exit.

"If it's vital, I'll take it. I'm pretty busy. Are you sure you can handle it?" He chirped, but he looked harried, sort of tired. I didn't need to bother him. How bad could it possibly be?

"I'll be fine." I managed a grimace. Jon peeked his head out the door, no doubt scoping out the 'middle of the counter'.

"I bet you will. He's cute!" He grinned and pushed through, a brisk spring in his step.

I sighed, tucked my notepad into my pocket, and walked through the swinging doors, nearly avoiding getting smacked in the nose. _Smooth. _He grinned at me from his stool, spinning slightly.

"Fancy meeting _you_ here!" He winked. I returned his look with a level stare.

"What. Are you doing. Here." I hissed under my breath, casting a wary eye out for the manager, but he wasn't anywhere. Gross rubbery fingers brushed a cool path across my elbow before withdrawing with the same speed.

"Getting lunch. Can I have the salad?" I scrawled it down in big, angry letters. SALAD.

He giggled. It was tiny and girlish. A tiny _hee-hee_.

"You laugh like a girl." I couldn't help but tweak a smile as it came out of my mouth.

"I couldn't help it. You looked cute, pouting like that." He drawled.

My smile disappeared, and I pulled back a bit. Wheatley blinked.

"Sorry." He muttered, eyes downcast.

"Anything else?" I droned. He winked again. I huffed, turning on my heel and stalking away. He sure recovered fast.

Sometimes I wondered about that boy. Man. _Thing. _I wanted to say monster, but he was based on a human psyche. He was designed to be human. There were no human monsters. Everybody had a motive. It might be useful to find his.

The plate clattered down in front of him, making the salad bounce in place, a carrot learning flight for a split second before kitting the edge and rolling away. And then he just looked up at me, smiled again. I nearly hissed.

And then I glanced around , before leaning in close.

"Why are you here?"

He looked up at me again.

"Because I don't believe our date last night went all that well." He glanced away, cheeks going a bit red. I rolled my eyes, puffed out my cheeks. Eventually he looked back, gauging my reaction. I walked away.

"Bye!" He chirped.

A few minutes later I found the receipt, with exact change and signed with a heart. I rolled my eyes so far back into my head you wouldn't believe.

But I went through three more hourse of my dead-end job with a tiny smile playing across my lips.


	6. Flying Space Junk

I got off my shift to find him brushing raindrops out of his hair and offering me an umbrella.

"Did you… wait out here?" I blinked. For three hours? In the rain?

"Nah. It started raining so I came back, thought you might want a walk home." I didn't want to go into this. I didn't want to go into the reasons why I hated him. Why I didn't want his apology.

It was all too exhausting. It was too damn tiring to keep hating him. I wanted to so bad. I wanted to be strong, to prove to everyone that nobody could boss me around anymore. And that meant hating him with a burning passion and rejecting him with every ounce of strength I had.

At least all this hatred was pulling me out of my numb stupor.

He grabbed me by the shoulder, pulled me in tight under the umbrella.

"How're you doing down there?" I glared up at him.

"Terribly." He laughed again, louder. A few people across the street looked up. I pretended I didn't know him. I stared at the gray sky and the gray ground, but no matter his attempts, I didn't look up at his stupid face.

It was going to take a whole lot more groveling to make me forgive him. It was difficult to kid myself, but I powered through it.

"So…" He stretched out the end vowel to unbelievable proportions, eyes flicking nervously around.

"I just… Don't know what you want me to say!" He muttered.

"Start off with 'I'm an absolute wanker, I wear dorky glasses, and I am very sorry for both of the above.'" I chuckled.

"Okay. I'm an absolute wanker, I wear dorky glasses, and I am very sorry for both of the above." He looked down at me.

"How's that?" He giggled again.

"Perfect." I laughed for a moment before pulling out of it.

"I am sorry, you know. I don't know how many times you want me to say it." He looked into a shop window, eyes glazing over.

"It's hard to take that from a piece of machinery. How do I know this isn't just programming talking? You're not _human._" I nearly spat it.

"I know." He said in a tiny voice.

"But would you believe me if I was?"

It hurt to say it. Was I even being honest anymore? But I had known my whole life the truth hurt. It hurt the most.

_'Do you know how many there were before you? Five. No, I kid! Six!' A laugh._

The truth was always the worst to spit out.

"No." I said.

There was a tiny noise, a little intake of breath. There was a tiny pause in his step, but he shouldered on.

"Why are you even trying? Give. Up."

"I refuse. Until I make amends, I'm not going to leave you alone." There was a firm set in his jaw. It was such a tiny detail for programming to capture. Those scientists must have been _really _bored. Or…

_No. Not going down _that_ road._

"You don't understand, I don't want your-" He spun around, eyes wide open in an almost scary look of determination.

"No. You don't understand. I floated in space for six years with the only thing on my mind being this stupid glass marble and the one human being I cared for on this whole damn chunk of rock. I spent six ears with nothing to do but think. Think about everything I did. Analyze it over and over and over. If I could shake it off as 'possession' or 'The Itch' I would have delivered my sorry and left you alone. But I'm not going to rationalize that or you."

He took a deep breath, digging his fingers deep into my shoulders, I was a little afraid.

'Testing' was an excuse. 'possession' was bullshit. I'm here because I willingly tortured you. Because I did it for power. And I know how it feels to have somebody use you for power. I know how it can destroy a person. I can't let it happen to the only thing I give a shit about on this pig piece of high-speed space debris. Okay? So _let me help you._"

We stared at each other a little while longer. Eventually I nodded. He released my shoulders and stood, brushing stray rain from his jacket.

We walked the rest of the way to my apartment in silence.


	7. Imperfect Machine

**sorry for not updating... this one is a bit short, but i had to take some time to work out a bit of a makeshift outline. terrible planning strikes back...**

* * *

"If you want, you can come in for a cup of tea, it's not late yet." I was surprised at the words coming out of my mouth.

He grinned.

"Yes, please." I opened the door for him bowing deeply at the waist.

"Ladies first." I smirked up at him.

"A hundred thanks, kind sir." He said in a prissy upper-class accent. My face split into a wide grin.

"Sit down anywhere. I'll make tea." I flicked the electric kettle on, set out two mugs and two teabags, then sat down across from him at the table. He rested his chin on the heels of both his hands. I fiddled with the radio, popping the batteries back in. It was still lying on the floor from yesterday. It was a distraction. I was hoping, begging for the kettle to ring so I wouldn't have to talk. I had had enough outbursts for one night.

"Uh, Chell?" My nose wrinkled. I jumped a bit. I had forgotten. I had forgotten what my name sounded like. It was funny in his voice. I didn't like it. Weird. New. I nodded to acknowledge him, meeting his eyes and keeping straight eye contact for what must have been the first time.

"Are we friends?" What an odd question to ask. My mind reeled back unbidden to the 'Bathroom Incident.' I was going to call it that until I understood what the hell had happened.

"Yeah, I suppose so." I muttered noncommittally.

"That's nice! It's so good to hear! I don't think I've really had any 'friends' before!" He swung his feet under the table. One of his big sneakers bashed against my shin. I winced. But he kept on grinning that rubbery grin, barely noticing me. A glitch in the circuitry. An _almost _perfect machine.

"Nobody alive, at least…" He trailed off, wincing. The teakettle shattered the awkward silence and I quickly rushed to pick it up and stop its inecessant squealing. The air still rung with silence, though, and I wasn't one for conversation.

We sipped our tea. He stared, and his eyes bored into my skull. He grinned, and one of his eyeballs spun in his head. A full three-sixty. I laughed for a second, but then it clicked. He wasn't real. He was a fake, manufactured artificial intelligence designed and programmed to do exactly this. He was programmed. It wasn't me making him laugh, he was programmed with that reaction. It could be any other girl. Why his stupid attentions were fixated on me was anyone's guess. I'd gotten to the point where I didn't care much anymore.

It wasn't like this could go anywhere. I would age. I would be sixty and people would be asking if he was my son. I couldn't deal with that. I couldn't deal with dying, and being around a piece of machinery only reminds you more of your imminent death.

I was going to wither and die, and he'd still be just as shiny.

And just as indifferent.


	8. Alive?

I didn't know what happened. All I remember is a blur. But I woke up hating myself with a certain robot crashed on my couch. Why had I let him stay?

NO was such an easy damn word. It was two letters, one syllable, took one second to say. So why was it so hard to force out of my lips when he was around? I wanted to be able to say no. And the problem was, if I said no, he would have respected it and backed off. But I couldn't. And Didn't. So everything kicked into high gear, moving faster and faster and faster, speeding so fast it was a big fat ugly blur.

I wanted to scream. What day was it? I was running so fast the pages of the calendar slid away and fell into nothing.

Saturday. It was Saturday,

I had Tuesdays and Saturday mornings off work. I had wanted to get some errands done. Even though I hated it still, I was probably going to cave and procrastinate and spend more damn time in his damn company because I was a weak piece of shit.

And I was going to have fun, too. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

_Damn._

Damn fun people. I procrastinated maybe 200% more around people who were genuinely sweet and funny and nice to be around-

Ahem, not like I was being specific to any one person or anything…

I was going to do it. I was going to do the old trope where I got up and cooked breakfast for the guy sleeping on my couch and ate it in my baggy t-shirt pajamas.

His nose twitched at the smell of eggs.

His head shot up, neck crooked from a night on the couch, hair sticking up at odd angles, in tiny little tufts.

"Eggs?" he muttered groggily, fingers pulling and clutching at nothing, falling off my couch, colliding with a metallic crunch rather than the thud of semi-hollow human bones hitting wood.

I still shuddered a bit, unintentionally.

* * *

It became a routine, but not a dull, full of convenience routine. Not the kind of routine that kept me feeling numb. But routine does lend some mundaneness to it. The mundaneness of somebody to pick me up from work, somebody to talk to. Even after everything, he was still the one that did all the talking. And I caught myself smiling. And grinning. And (worst of all) laughing.

Do you know how hard it is to forgive a person? Usually it's the worst. Especially, you would think, after a murder attempt or two. After the fact that he didn't try to reason off his actions. Even though he was still just as annoying and happy as before.

No matter how hard it was to forgive a person, it was harder to hate them when they were constantly _with _you. And even when I didn't have his long limbs invading my personal space and his clumsy advances he was still dancing in my head. I ground my teeth.

I was starting to _feel. _And we couldn't have that.

Sometimes I wondered if I wouldn't have been better off as a robot. Not an AI. A robot. Then at least I would have some excuse for not wanting to be alive.


	9. Watered Down

The air still hung thick with apologies. I was starting to think it would never stop.

But I got used to the feel of artificial fingers holding mine. Holding me. Artificial arms wrapped around my midsection. Soft artificial kisses along my nose. My cheekbones. Every time I would blush and try to hold it back and end up grinding my teeth together and breathe out heavily through my nose. Especially in dark movie theaters when the lights were so low nobody could see my face but it still felt dangerously hot. But there was a hand draped over my shoulder, fingers lightly brushing across my shoulderblade, creeping up to my collarbone.

I didn't shudder at the touch anymore. I leaned into his artificial shoulder. He smelled like latex and lavender. And he was braver than I remembered. Something so big and terrible that his little brain couldn't understand it leached into his cerebrum and changed him. His stutter was all but gone. He was more conscious now, of when his words made me blush, what he could do to get his way. When I was around him I felt drained, slowly sickened, like I was being used up until I was empty and then I was going to be dropped. He was different. He was so subtly different I didn't notice until it was too late. Sometimes I forgot, and I'd say something, and he would take it in a way that was different, so wrong, different from the Wheatley I knew. But then he would make me laugh and the feeling would vanish.

It made me question if I ever really knew him in the first place. I was preaching and preaching the virtues of Old Wheatley, but that was the one that had grinned and me from the Chassis and used me up and toyed with me until I had nothing left for him but contempt and anger, blinding hot anger that burned in me for six years and ate me up from the inside out.

But lately I felt consumed anyway. It was an alternative to being numb and filing taxes, but what would happen when I had nothing left?

Last time that happened he tried to kill me.

If I lost my only friend right now I don't think he would even have to lift a finger to kill me.

The loneliness might do it for him.

But then he leaned into my ear, whispered something. Heat prickled down my spine as hot breath rushed past my cheek.

"Who's that?" He was hopelessly lost. I didn't lift my eyes from the big screen in front of me, feeling the prick of pain behind my eyelids as the light whittled its way into my nerves.

"He's been the antagonist for the last forty minutes of the movie." I rolled my eyes. My lips were dry. I was painfully aware of the hand lightly squeezing my shoulder.

"Why does his face look like that?"

"Were you paying attention at all?" I groaned.

"Yeah. That maid stole pearls. That old guy wears a cape. He's Manbat or something."

"That was twenty minutes ago." I deadpanned, staring at the mindless action spinning on-screen. Blood flashed before my eyes, spinning into a blur, mushed into a paste by his words that came rolling in one ear and out the other.

My eyes fluttered closed. My lips were dryer than before, and the hand on my shoulder felt painfully heavy and hot. I was stuck with the feeling of being uncomfortable in my own skin, horribly self-aware to the point where I wasn't real, floating up and away from my body. It was a coping mechanism, plain and simple. It was better than biting my lip until it bled or concentrating on the stones in the pathways or counting the graffiti on the walls. It was better to just pretend I wasn't real for a while. Maybe if I wished, hoped, pretended enough I could just dissipate through my skin, leaving behind the bag of bones and fat and skin that dragged me so far down. My weight limit was reached and surpassed and I couldn't use the Aerial Faithplate.

I wanted to fly with Long Fall Boots, soar through the air, feel the swish and sting of my hair on my cheeks, only to land a few seconds later. I wanted to have hollow bones and a hollow body and a hollow soul so the wind could whistle through my core and into my head and swallow me up.

And for a second, I was.

But then sticky latex fingers dragged along my shoulder, and we were leaving, and I was walking dead, eyes staring ahead, into blue oceans and orange sunsets that were contained in rifts and tears and holes in reality.

What if I just…

My fingers started to rip and tear at the air or the dusty street corner, the moonlight shimmering on the tips of my long nails, but I couldn't tear through space like I could Back There. My long nails scraped at my chest, my shoulders, my arms, raking lines of blood. I scrabbled at my chest, trying to pop my ribs open and let me out, but cool fingers wrapped themselves around mine and long arms cradled mine and there was hot breath whispering down my neck.

I let my breath howl out my lips and my nails rake down my chest, scrambling, ripping, trying to open up wide and leave behind everything I so, so hated. And the man (Robot? Monster? Like it mattered) I hated most was cradling me and rocking me with long fingers wrapped tight around my wrists to the point of breaking my bones and cooing in my ear like he _knew me_-

I knew how fake and insignificant words were now. But they still hurt worse than nails. I curled up and closed my eyes and soaked up the mean words and the hurt.

"Chell? Chell. Wake up. Get up. Please. Come on." He was just saying anything and nothing, I could disregard his words like I always did.

"Chell. Chell. Please. Are you okay? Say something." There was actual pain in his contrived voice. I realized I was shivering violently. I dragged my heavy body upwards, leaning on his offered shoulder as we tottered away. The air smelled of blood and latex. He didn't stop supporting me with an arm wrapped sturdily around my waist.

He tucked me into bed and placed a kiss on my forehead. It left a burning hot mark that lingered while I drifted to sleep.


	10. In The Rain

I think I'm bleeding. I think I'm bleeding because I can feel blood running down my arms and smell it, it smells like rust and death, but my eyes have to be deceiving me because I can't see any cuts or any blood. I woke up late at night with nothing to think about and so my thoughts gravitated to work the next day. I hadn't thought about work in such a long time. I was no longer dead tired when I came home. I had a hard time remembering it existed. Because It would pass in a blur.

And I would come home to an android on my couch or at my table, sometimes with a casserole or a coffee or a mug of tea. I would ask, jokingly almost, what he was doing here, and he would just grin at me and say:

"This is your house, isn't it?" And I'd smile and he'd smile and he'd grab me by the arm, leaving lukewarm coffees on the table, drag me off to his new favourite swing set (it changed so often) or park bench. Once we took a train out to the sea and spent our time ducking under my umbrella from the quick bursts of heavy rain splattering us, walked with our shoes clutched in our hands on the wet sand, and then falling into a tiny diner booth almost identical to the ones all over the city (mine included) and staring at the people scuttling along the boardwalk with somewhere to go while I leaned on his shoulder and fell asleep.

I wished I could sleep so easily tonight. I closed my eyes, but a crack of lighting and a boom of thunder almost immediately afterwards made me jump and jolt up, hugging my pillow to my chest. Didn't that mean it was close? My heart was beating a tattoo on the inside of my ribcage. Maybe If I just… I eyed the slip of paper on the nightstand with a ten-digit number scrawled in big, loopy letters. I grabbed in my fist before I could reconsider, dialed.

Two rings and a chirpy voice answered:

"Hello!"

"Will you come?" I whispered, my tongue suddenly paper-dry.

"Oh! Y-yeah. Why? Are you okay? What do you need?"

"Just hurry,"

"I'll bring coffee." I could hear the understanding in his voice. The call ended with a click.

I tried to sleep again. But there was thunder still booming in the sky and torrents of rain sloshing through the gutterpipes and-

Somebody outside screamed. The sound was so loud it carried through my thin window and my curtain all the way from the street outside. I was too afraid to look.

_Coward._

I huddled further under my covers when screaming came again. My eyes jolted open. I bit my lip, hard. My hands were shaking as I launched myself out of bed, feet slipping on the cool wood flooring. I slammed my rainboots on, Yanked my slicker hood up over my head, and bolted down the stairs. Adrenaline was pumping, and I could smell ozone and metal. My feet clomped on the stairs.

I hesitated at the door. The screaming had stopped. My eyes widened, and I wasn't thinking about me anymore. I ripped open the front door, towards where the screaming had originated, on the other half of the parking lot. I was breathing heavy, and looking, looking, searching for somebody, but all I could see was the pouring rain and the driving fog, and the wind driving half-melted pellets of ice into my hair. I took another step forwards and my feet slid. The ground was a red slick.

The air smelled horribly, chokingly of rust. I almost gagged and my feet slid on the bloody concrete.

"Are you alright?" I called, hesitant to move further. I was answered by a tiny whimper and a gasp. Footsteps. I turned the corner and a hand grabbed at my ankle, gripping tightly. The hand scraped at my ankle again, nails digging in, slipping and sliding and smearing red all over my boot. A woman lay at my feet, on her stomach.

Her hairline was all bloody. It made her dark hair stick right to her head. Red was dripping into her mouth. She coughed, and blood splattered onto the ground. I blinked, coughed, at the odor that permeated the air, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I wasn't aware a body could bleed so much,

I didn't hesitate this time. I leaned down and started to rip strips from my shirt when I was interrupted. "Stop." A voice called from the end of the alley. It was gruff, with angry undertones. There was a click of a gun being cocked, and I froze. The man across the alley, cocked, took aim, and-

"What in the bloody _Hell _do you think you're doing?" a voice rang out behind me as something hot burrowed its way into my ribcage. Something hot and indescribably agonizing, followed by another into my stomach for good measure. I stopped, coughed, fingers skidding and sliding in the fresh holes in me. I leaned over, sending a new brand of fire through my already burning brain, feeling it reach my fingers and toes in waves, and it didn't stop, it got worse and worse and I was coughing up bile and blood. I tried to hold it in but pure, hot liquid pain poured between my fingers.

There was a scream and a sob and a _crack_, but I couldn't look up from where my cheek was embedded in the concrete. The _screech _of metal bending, breaking, and the sound of flesh on metal, flesh on brick, smashing, smashing, and I vomited again.

"Hello? 911. We have an emergency-" I couldn't decipher any more of the words. They blurred together into an endless paste of red and I could barely breathe without coughing up blood again. Sticky red hands cradled my face, and I caught a flash of a hint of dirty blond hair and what might have been circular glasses.

"What were you-" His voice choked off.

"No, don't close your eyes. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. You'll be okay. You'll be fine. Just don't sleep."

"Come on. Shhh." He started to murmur vague encouragements, stroking my hair. I coughed again.

"Please, please. Don't go to sleep. Please. Please be okay. Please." I nodded, a jerky, painful motion that set my ribs on fire.

I has almost fell asleep when the roar of a siren reached my ears. I was yanked away from his sticky hands and the doors were slammed on his blue eyes and it was all red and white and I had to keep my eyes open and the world was spinning around me and I could hear bickering from outside the ambulance, a high-pitched yelling, and finally he bent his long legs into the seat next to where I lay as the vehicle took off, siren making my ears ring. He sat next to me, stroking my face and hair and whispering to me.

He might have been crying. Or, as close as a mechanical body could. He was making dry weeping noises. That grated on my eardrums. They sounded real.

Too real.

A perfect machine, indeed.


	11. Heartthrob

Most victims of shootings die of Toxic Shock Syndrome before reaching the emergency room, before even being able to be operated on. I waited thirty minutes of paramedics patching me up and shooting me full of something cold from an IV drip before I was sedated.

They told me I almost died. That the man on the other end of the alley (I didn't know his name) had been apprehended. But all I could think of was the _smash, smash, crunch _of skull hitting brick and cement. Why were his hands bloody? Why were they _bloody_? I couldn't imagine babyface Wheatley taking his hands and grinning and gripping and tightening and just _breaking, smashing, kill-_

_Why do you have to make this so _hard _on me?_

I shuddered and coughed and spit up a line of saliva and blood. I could. All too well. I had seen his face while trying to kill. He'd almost done it, before. And now he had an excuse. I wondered how long he'd wanted to do that for.

Since Aperture. Six years.

I slept and dreamt of bloody seas with mountain-high frothing pink waves.

I woke to a finger gently but insistently prodding my cheek. Cracked my eyes open to a sliver of bright light, shut them again, kneading my knuckles so deep into my eye sockets I saw stars, gasping slightly as the movement tugged over my ribs, sending pain in hot waves rumbling through me again. And again. It didn't stop. I coughed. And hacked, but I couldn't get enough air and I was drowning out of water, drowning in blood and IV fluid. I was crying fat, hot tears and somebody was stroking my back with their long fingers and muttering something vaguely comforting and something _icy cold _was rushing into my arm –

I was asleep again, wasn't I?

I didn't wake for real for another while. When I did I woke to thin fingers laced through mine. Wheatley was snoozing next to my bed (or pretending to.) He bit his lip and rolled over in the chair, blond hair sticking straight up. His fingers tightened around mine.

I didn't want to move. Could I, even? I experimentally lifted my free hand, shimmied my torso a bit. Painful, but possible. I gasped a bit, shimmying into an upright position, leaning against my pillows. Next to me Wheatley yawned and stretched like he was really just waking up and grinned lopsidedly at me. I blinked and breathed out through my nose, smiling back.

My whole life had been spent around robots and artificial monsters (some more monstrous than others) and it made sense that I looked up to them, right? So it wasn't that weird to wish for an exhaust fan system to cool my burning cheeks. My whole face felt hot and heavy.

"Can I have some water?" I croaked. He nodded and filled a cup from a pitcher by the sink. He lifted the tiny paper cup to my lips. I swallowed. Between gulps, I grouched,

"I'm not an invalid, you know. I can drink my own water." He sighed, helping me drink the whole cup, biting his plastic lip again. The water had calmed my blush a bit, at least. When he did speak, it was in the smallest voice I had ever heard him talk in.

"I-i had to watch you get _shot. _Humour me." He breathed out heavily, hiking his glasses up again. I smiled. He grinned back.

I sighed and leaned back on the pillows and stared up at the pattern on the ceiling. There was a stray coil of the lamp hanging slightly loose from its post and an unidentifiable orange stain in the middle of one of the tiles-

Long fingers gripped my chin and tugged me towards him. I jumped and emitted a noise of surprise. I barely had time to choke out a 'wh-' when soft lips were brushing gently across mine and I parted my lips instinctively and leaned in, and my eyes shot open wide, my blush raging again. I slowly lifted my arm and slung it around his neck, leaning in so far I almost fell but I didn't because he was holding me up, supporting me and he was soft and cool and his cool fingers were in my hair, tugging and petting. He was breathing heavily, panting almost. My palms were sweaty. My mind was moving at such a fast pace, picking out little details like the ugly cast the fluorescent lights gave my skin and how my toes were curling to the point of pain. I started to feel lightheaded and dizzy, and my breath only game in small gasps. I slid back a bit, still breathing like I had run a marathon. My eyes were tight shut. Involuntary shudders slid all the way to my bones, making them shaky and thin and delicate, thin glass tubes like the one stuck in my arm, ripe and ready to shatter to bits when I was inevitably let go.

He didn't let go. He held me like I never could him and I breathed in his scent until it got stale and I closed my eyes and was almost content for a minute until my side started throbbing, hot with my beating heart, and I had to grit my teeth and squeeze his fingers and I was due for another surgery today.

I closed my eyes and he hugged me tight and ignored the bloodstain spreading over his pale blue shirt.


	12. Shitty Confessions

**ugh i'm sorry it took me forever to come out with this chapter- i hope to start updating frequently again. I know it's a little short- it's intentional- i've been working on something big! see you on the next chapter!**

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He didn't stop. He came every day on a schedule so tight it was almost military, and each time he would grin that idiot grin and chirp a greeting and sit down in a chair pulled up tight to the end of my bed. I didn't want to think about him most times, instead just let him hold my hand and every once in a while I'd wake up from my stupor to give a tentative smile his way. Our eyes would meet and I'd blush and he'd blush and I'd grimace, he'd make a face back. Then I'd cover my face and take a few breaths in and out to try and snap out of it but I couldn't kid myself anymore. I was in deep with a monster I hated.

Once I had a nurse bring me the tablet off the hook on the wall. It was a thin, black object and after six years of living with technology, my fingers danced across the slick surface like I'd been doing it all my life.

_Search._

A … I… I hesitantly typed into the bar.

_AI (Or Artificial Intelligence) Is a non-human thinking and learning intelligence. AIs are an integral part of computer science and programming, used in many computer fields, animation being one of them. Many AI's gain intelligence and knowledge from the world around them, either being input text-based or by human interaction. The creation and philosophy of AIs revolves around the idea that the human psyche can be easily simulated through a program in which information is submitted. In this way, the AI learns the way a human might…_

I knew he was simulated to be human, right? If this was what AI was… I was remembering how he didn't stumble anymore, how his conversation became so much more fluid and intelligent after the flood of information from the chassis… How he changed and adapted after meeting me, in the month that he'd been here.

Was he really sentient?

How could I have been so stupid?

I handed the tablet back to the nurse with a smile on my face, but I was shuddering slightly, and nearly dropped it. She smiled back and I turned over roughly in my sheets, aggravating my bullet hole. The doctors said another few days and I could go home. I would have to take medications for another month, though.

I was torn between two points, about to be ripped to bits. I was torn between genuine stupid feelings and knowing how stupid it was. He may have been sentient, but that didn't mean he really cared. I almost didn't want him to care. It would justify my feelings. It would have made it worse if he was genuinely a sweet, kind person.

I scraped my nails across the headboard and peeled off a layer of paint.

I looked at the eggshell shards on the tips of my nails and breathed out.

A knock sounded quietly on the door.

"A visitor, miss." Whispered the nurse.

"Hi!" I heard a voice whisper from outside. Who was I kidding? It was always him. I smiled and nodded and the nurse opened the door and left.

I glanced at the clock on the side table.

"You're three minutes late." I joked.

"Oh- uh, sorry about that-" He stuttered, plastic face turning bright red.

I laughed. His grin shone.

He walked over to my bed, this time not sitting in the chair.

"Uh, Chell- I have something to say…"

"I don't need a formal apology for three minutes."

"It's not that…" He trailed off, grinding his teeth a bit. He had piqued my curiosity. I sat up and leaned forwards, biting my lip slightly.

"Then what is it?" He grinned nervously and rocked on his heels and dropped a bouquet of flowers at the foot of my bed. They were roses. I blinked, shuddered, eyes flicking up to meet his, tears blurring the edges of my vision.

_No, no no, no, _no.

He smiled, like he was oblivious to my pained expression, inhaled, and-

NO.

"No." I coughed up, throat suddenly dry. A shitty confession straight out of a movie. No. I still had my whole life to live without him. I closed my eyes tight and ignored the tears falling down my face as he soldiered on, completely oblivious, the words tumbling out faster and faster, stutterier and getting worse, a vomit, a torrent of words. I was drowning in words. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't-

My heart was thumping full speed. My insides hurt. I hurt. But the words that I had to say now hurt the worst. I had to hold everyone at arms length, I couldn't do this. So when he leaned closer to me, whispered:

"I-I really care about you, and-"

"Please." I nearly screamed. I didn't realize I was crying. But I was, and it was snotty and gross and sticky, and I cried through his words, loud enough that I didn't have to hear a confession that I couldn't return. But he said it anyway, and when he was done I lay my head on his shoulder and he rocked me and whispered quietly:

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I never could be the one you wanted me to be, eh? I'll always let you down." And I tried to speak up but instead I coughed and a few more tears slid out. He shook his head.

"I couldn't be angry at you if I tried. But I'll give you my promise. I'll make sure you're happy. I can't become the man you want me to be." And he repeated it until it sounded like he really believed it, bombarded his senses with it to make it true. His eyes looked deader than usual as he kissed my cheek goodbye and left. He closed the door softly, and I stared and stared at the last image of him until I couldn't breathe. I felt it swallowing me up a tide of my tears rising higher and higher. I was going to drown. To _drown _and I couldn't…

I wished I was a robot. Not an android, a robot. Cold metal with no feelings, like I had once believed him to be. Now I knew how so, so wrong I was and there was no way to ever get him back. His apartment was empty, the scarce furniture gone like a dream. And I was left gasping in the rain under the umbrella he had left here once, unable to breathe again. It was the bullet wound, they told me. I'd never be an athlete. I had an ugly scar that prevented me from ever wanting to go out in a bathing suit.

I nearly withered up and died during that cold, cold winter. And nobody ever came to help me. I grinned, but it was more of a painful grimace.


	13. Goodbyes and Hellos

** yo, if you haven't, go reread the end of last chapter before starting this one. i added in a bit more because I felt it was unfinished. Thanks for all the follows and reviews! Enjoy the last chapter!**

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You don't deserve any more than you get. We were both wrong and stupid. We were idiots.

_Two lit-tle morons, sitting in a tree-_

You don't deserve any more than you get. And I didn't deserve that. I didn't deserve anything more than tears on my pillowcase and the sick, hot feeling of being left behind, again. We'd come full circle, with him gone again and me an empty shell.

I moved up the ranks in the diner pretty quickly, threw myself demonically into my work, because I didn't deserve any more. One snowy night two winters later, the old manager died, leaving me in charge, Nobody knew why. But I did. I had stayed long. Lise was gone, Jon had left, I was the only original member of the staff. Everyone moved on, looking for a better life past this dead-end diner job, But I didn't deserve anything more. I spent my time in the hot kitchen. I counted bills, took overnight business classes to keep the place afloat. I was holding on to the last piece of my old life I had left.

Between that and my apartment, which still smelled like latex and lavender from time to time, I had nothing left, not even a scrap of Aperture.

I don't deserve anything more. I repeated it in my head, bombarded my senses with it until-

I collapsed in on myself, crying quietly.

* * *

I was numb again. I was sitting in a corner coffee shop with Lise, Anya and Jon. I was quiet, reserved as usual. Trevor popped over to the table, coffees in hand. Pressing a kiss to Joel's cheek, he handed everyone their cups and sat down. I was surprised at Jon. They'd been dating three months, a consecutive record for the guy. Seeing other people just made me-

_My heart made an ugly crunch like crumpling paper._

Trevor, with brows pressed together, leaned close to me, whispered,

"Cheer up. What's there to be sad about?"

_I don't deserve that. _I thought. But, almost like it needed dto force itself out, I felt my lips muttering it too. My eyes widened, but just like grabbing a tube of toothpaste and squeezing just to see what'll happen, my words came tumbling out in almost perfect consecutive timing with my tears. Anya and Lise and Joel were oblivious, but Trevor smiled, patted me back once, and whispered one more time:

"That's bullshit and you know it. " He smiled at me, and after a moment, I blinked and grinned back. My mind continued, unbidden, no matter how hard I tried to stop it. It went faster and faster, mashing into a blur.

_You deserve everything. You deserve cheesy walks on the beach in the rain, and dressing up nice and smiling, you deserve to breathe and live on this planet. 'I can't be the one you need me to be' is bullshit. Why change? You're perfect. You don't need anyone. You've gone to Hell and back. _

But what do you want?

I mouthed it to myself.

_"I don't know."_

That was a lie too. I knew exactly what I wanted.

It was something I'd never get back. I collapsed onto my bed, knees locked tight, crying again for the first time in a year and a half. Eight years since Aperture. My twenty-ninth birthday. I was aging and I showed it. But I still worked hard, smiled at my coworkers, fueled by some manic energy I thought had deserted me long ago.

On the day of my twenty-ninth birthday, An old friend entered the diner. I glanced up from where I was helping out with waitressing a section. My mouth fell open slightly. I felt tears prickling in my eyes. If I deserved everything, he did too.

He sat down at his stool, swung his legs like an oversized toddler, just like two long years ago and I still hadn't forgotten his stupid plasticky face. I placed the order down on the customers table, grinned and turned towards him, feeling two years younger.

I stood there, with the counter between me and him, eyes boring into his.

"I'd like the salad," he whispered. I grinned at him, and he smiled tentatively back.


End file.
